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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508247">Les is More</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roscommon/pseuds/Roscommon'>Roscommon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stephanie Plum - Janet Evanovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Co-workers, Gen, Humor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:35:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,357</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roscommon/pseuds/Roscommon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot in which Tank is having a very Lester Santos day, with a dash of mayhem from other folks to make his experience truly complete. It’s a mixed blessing that Ranger is otherwise occupied in the gun range with Stephanie. (Cross-posted on fanfiction dot net.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Les is More</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A stand-alone one-shot written for the 2020 FanFic Fundraiser for the Plum/Twilight author JenRar. With thanks to rmt335 on fanfiction dot net for a thoughtful beta read; any remaining goofs are because I insist on fiddling with things even after they’re done. The Stephanie Plum characters aren’t mine, any trademarks belong to their respective owners, and I make no profit. This story, though, is all mine. Please excuse any errors.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>
  <span>Les is More</span>
</h2><p>
  <span>Tank had absolutely no doubt that he was a total badass. No shame in speaking the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew he was imposing, and he happily used that to his advantage on a regular basis. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tank could make the most hardened criminals piss their goddamn pants just by appearing in an alley when the aforementioned criminals were only </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking </span>
  </em>
  <span>about acting a fool. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank particularly took satisfaction watching the local Trenton badges, New Jersey gangbangers, and Family enforcers give him a wide berth whenever he stepped down from his oversized truck. His formidable hands were clearly ready for action. His aloof scowl in his impenetrable mirrored shades conveyed his lack of patience. His tactical belt told everyone he wasn’t messing around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just the thought of it made him smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beyond all that, Tank had damned well </span>
  <em>
    <span>earned </span>
  </em>
  <span>the respect of the assorted hard men who populated the control room, weapons room, duty shifts, and field teams at Rangeman under his and Ranger’s shared command. It wasn’t just reputation. It was years of hands-on, years of leading through example, years of smack-downs on the mats, and years of putting steel-toed boot to goddamn ass in the field with his men. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Damn straight.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, the only man standing who could </span>
  <em>
    <span>sometimes </span>
  </em>
  <span>take down Tank was Ranger himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes. When the brother got lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which was why Tank was pissed beyond reason to find himself stifling a girly squawk as he heard his door bang open. Only one person opened his door like that. Only one person in this whole goddamn building.... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Tank,” Lester Santos strolled into the office. Tank watched as the man flung himself down casually in the chair across from Tank’s desk as though he’d just arrived home after a long day at work. Tank could almost see Les getting ready to crack open a cold one before starting an evening of Fortnite online. He repressed a shudder while imagining who Les’s current avatar might be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So Tank, you can thank me whenever you’re ready," Les announced with a smile in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank could think of many things he'd like to say to Ranger’s rambunctious cousin today, and "thanks" wasn't in the running. It hadn’t even lined up at the starting line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without looking up from his computer, Tank ground out, “Huh. That so? Well, I’ll let you know when I’m ready. And, don’t hold your breath.” Seeing Les undaunted across from him— and obviously settling in— Tank added, “You notice how my door was closed before you decided to grace me with your presence? That’s because I’m a busy man, today.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was especially true since Ranger had scheduled himself all morning downstairs, in the gun range with Stephanie. Leaving Tank here, solo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for Les.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank peered over his glasses, seeing the smaller man still smiling expectantly at him. Taking off his glasses momentarily, he said, “You know, I’m thinking the fact that you’re here while I’m obviously working means maybe you just don’t want to get paid. ’Cause I can surely arrange that.” Even Les had to know that today was payroll day. Even if he didn’t know it was also quarterly tax filing week. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very funny, Tank,” Les smirked, leaning further back in Tank’s visitor’s chair. “You know you gotta pay the big dog,” he added, pointing both his thumbs at himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hound dog is more like it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tank huffed, shaking his head. He truly didn’t have time for the man’s bullshit. Especially not today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that in mind, Tank studiously looked away as he put his glasses back on and made it obvious that he was resuming his work. He calculated that being steadfastly ignored would propel Les to go find somewhere else to hang out. Boredom was not something that Les endured for long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, the itchy sense of someone else in the room was not conducive to the concentration required to reconcile staffing reports and hours worked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, he turned his attention to reviewing last night’s incident reports. As that itchy feeling continued, he acknowledged that what he really wanted to do was stand up, stride over to Les, and throw the man bodily out of his office. Maybe, with enough lift and velocity he’d land on Junior’s desk all the way over by the windows. Tank imagined the surprised look on Junior’s face as Les slid home through his hefty stack of unfiled surveillance transcriptions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, no. Workplace laws needed to be followed. Rangeman policies and procedures were there for a reason. And, yeah, it was important to preserve good working relationships up and down the chain. Beyond that, his own preference was to actually use force only when absolutely necessary. Each one of those reasons stepped forward in his mind, popping the bubble of his Les-tossing fantasy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One could, though, briefly envy gangbangers; surely they didn’t worry about such business or social niceties. Even if he absolutely did not want to live the gangsta’ life, sometimes a brother just needed a dream to help him get through the day….</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a pointed exhale, he returned focus to his work. He made his way through Slick’s rambling report of a stakeout (and did he really need to know why Slick had chosen Popeyes instead of KFC for the night’s provisions?). Then he puzzled his way through Hector’s cryptic overnight alarm report (and what the heck did POS LSN 2WY mean?). Fortunately it had turned out to be a false alarm. He could wait to ask Chuy, Hector’s somewhat more English speaking assistant, what the abbreviation could possibly signify.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, with another exhale, he turned his attention to Vince’s report of last night’s apprehension of Joey Baldinucci, a mid-level mob enforcer on the lam. The apprehension that was supposed to be a professional, low visibility extraction. The one that had instead featured Lester Santos front-and-center in his man-thong on the goddamned 11pm TV news. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The one where Stephanie Plum had been an unexpected guest at an event in the next ballroom and coincidentally tripped Mr. Baldinucci’s bodyguard as they left the banquet facility. At which point she’d inadvertently set up the more public-than-desired apprehension after the whole goddamn thing had totally gone off script. Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course </span>
  </em>
  <span>she did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank stopped his teeth from grinding but couldn’t help the frown that pulled his brows into a thundercloud. Of course, both he and Ranger had already read this one. In fact, it was why he’d persuaded Ranger to postpone this morning’s event review. He only hoped that the delay provided enough of a cooling down period to keep Ranger from totally losing his shit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It probably wouldn’t, though. The nightly news clearly showed Baldinucci being forcefully grounded in the parking lot by man-thong Les’s football tackle. In addition to that truly cinematic lawsuit fodder, their previously anonymous source was also clearly visible in the footage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beyond that, no one could miss that both Les and Baldinucci had managed to be tangled with Stephanie Plum in the news footage. Which, </span>
  <em>
    <span>saints preserve us</span>
  </em>
  <span>, didn’t manage to cut away from the scene until after Stephanie ended up with her face snug up in Les’s crotch. Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> that happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So while spending time in the gun range with Stephanie this morning would normally be something to calm Ranger down, today that was not certain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After what seemed like an eternity in his mind— or at least long enough to rekindle his after-breakfast indigestion— his attention was brought back to his office by a clattering sound. Looking up, he saw that Les had slunk low in his chair, where he was doing something on his cell phone. Probably texting the waitress </span>
  <em>
    <span>du-jour</span>
  </em>
  <span> about plans for their next rendezvous. Possibly involving roleplay. Possibly involving handcuffs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>About which he’d no-doubt brag to the office afterward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all that left Tank with a couple of images that he could spend hours trying to wash from his brain to no avail. There were some things a man did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to know about his coworkers. Really.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Les, aren’t you supposed to be on client monitoring shift right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but it’s my break. Caesar just relieved me.” He looked up from his phone. “Hey, since I’m here, do you want to get into the betting pool on when the internal gun range video feed will start up again?" With a wide-eyed expression that didn't fool Tank for a second, Les added, "It cut off right when Ranger was helping Steph with her shooting stance." </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dammit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tank thought to himself. Ranger was usually more proactive on shutting down feeds when he was planning to focus his special level of masculine attention on Stephanie. This time, Tank had shut it down on his behalf. Unfortunately not until after he'd walked by the control room and heard Slick’s loudly drawled, “Well </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that man can even make putting on eye protection look like a type of foreplay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that moment, Tank had stopped in a sudden hurry, pivoted into the control room, and practically knocked both Slick and Zip into the woodwork. “What the…,” he’d begun before catching a glance at the monitor where Slick was looking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of course, it had been Ranger. With Stephanie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d breathed a sigh of relief that nothing scandalous was on display. Ranger was simply directing Stephanie into a posture for shooting. Of course, it was a notably </span>
  <em>
    <span>snug </span>
  </em>
  <span>posture because, well, Ranger and Stephanie. But even though it could still be labeled “safe for work” and all, Tank knew this could progress into something less formal fairly quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he’d immediately returned to his office and used his fob to disable that particular feed. It wasn’t that Tank had any doubts regarding Ranger’s dedication to always protecting Stephanie’s honor, but Tank knew what could happen— and not happen— when a brother got busy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Tank finally processed Les' comment about betting on when the feed would be restored. "You developing a death wish, Santos?" Tank finally managed to say. "Placing wagers on Ranger is never going to be the right move. And a bet involving Steph...? Are you gonna tell me straight-up what kind of smack you're on? Or do I need to have you pee in a cup?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is just a bet on the feed timing,” Les explained, his expression guileless to the extreme. “You know we’d never wager on Steph. We just like to watch when she does her shooting practice so we can cheer her on later.” Les shook his head in what he probably imagined was gee-golly wonder before continuing his unusually detailed excuse. “You know, before it cut out, it even looked like Ranger was going to lend her his Glock. And well, he’d only do that if he thought she was ready to ‘ace’ whatever shoot he’s set up for her. We’d all like to see that. Am I right?"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Searching for a thought to distance himself from the mental picture of Ranger snugged up against Bombshell's shapely caboose, Tank reflected that he had never seen Ranger let anyone shoot his Glock before— at the range or anywhere else. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tank knew he should never have taken Psychology as an undergrad. Because he never, ever needed to think about Freud and the symbolism of Stephanie holding Ranger’s favorite gun between her hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never, ever. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>dammit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, today was getting stone-cold stupid. It wasn’t even noon and already his day was completely FUBAR. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know Santos," he practically growled. "Whether Little Girl's range scores are better today or not, I'd advise you to stay off the topic of Stephanie for the foreseeable future. And just basically stay off Ranger’s radar for a few days."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Huh?" Les looked genuinely perplexed. “What’s got my cousin all bent, now? Is it still last week’s date with Bomber? The one that we weren’t supposed to call a date but it was?  Because how was I supposed to know that ‘Operation Secret Dinner and Movie Date’ was for the same flick that I’d bootlegged and shown in the breakroom earlier that day? I mean, why was that my fault? Anyhow, since Stephanie already knew that the latest Superman is a big, sulking bore in blue spandex, she got Ranger to take her to a comedy with Will Farrell and Marky Mark. Which she loved. So she had a happy date and he was her hero yet again, even if he thought the movie sucked balls." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Les leaned back, crossing his arms in a smug “I rest my case” gesture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank just stared. Perhaps he really should have Ranger’s cousin pee into a cup. Because the man was either stoned or clueless. And though Les liked to party more than he should and joke when it wasn't wise, Tank didn’t think he was anybody's fool. Or maybe he really didn’t understand that last night’s bare-butt, breaking-news-at-eleven apprehension was a major cluster. If not for the televised act itself, then for involving Stephanie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could he be that… well... foolish?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank's mental evaluation of the "Is Les a Fool?" question was interrupted by an impatient knock, followed by his door slamming open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well hello Tank. Long time, no see. How's tricks?" Jeanne Ellen Burrows stood framed in Tank's doorway long enough for Tank to see heads in the hallway bobbing back into their cubicles and out of sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello, Jeanne Ellen. And what a surprise this is," Tank replied in a noncommittal voice, meanwhile wondering who the hell was manning the front door. And who was handling floor security. Neither of whom should’ve let this particular woman get all the way to his office without a peep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, as soon as she left, Tank planned on finding both men and taking each of them down to the gym for a good old-fashioned butt-whupping. A beat-down that would become legendary in Rangeman annals. Without taking his eyes off Jeanne Ellen, he slid out the plastic sleeve holding today's duty roster from under the pile of payroll and tax forms that littered his desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And just think," she arched her sculpted eyebrow while sliding into the office and closing the door behind her. "If only Ranger were on time for his meeting with me this morning, you and I would’ve missed this wonderful opportunity to see each other." Her ironic voice was like syrup drizzled over steel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And what a damn shame that would have been," he replied without attempting to disguise his lack of enthusiasm. "Oh and do come in," he continued, turning his open hand in an ironic and belated flourish of welcome. Pursing his lips in amusement, he watched as she digested that Tank neither stood in greeting nor gestured her toward a seat. Instead, he sat back in his chair, hands on his armrests. At ease, yet ready for action.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a pause, Jeanne Ellen smiled and moved toward the middle of the room. "Oh and look," her smile broadened into a shark’s grin when she spotted Les. "It's Mini Me." She pulled up a side chair and straddled it, her leather pants stretching along with her legs as she moved with deliberate grace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Les uncrossed his legs and sat up in an unconscious echo of her movement. "Jeanne Ellen," he purred, "I assure you that there's nothing 'mini' about me." He tilted his head seductively and pursed his lips as though even his smile was a kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank rolled his eyes as Jeanne Ellen laughed; a hard, sparkling sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And here I was wasting my time waiting for Ranger," she pouted, "when all the fun was happening here, one office over." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well you know I hate to interrupt all this fun we’re having right now," Tank growled, hoping to forestall more of Les's banter. The man truly couldn't help himself when it came to women, Tank mused while his eyes roved dispassionately over his unwanted visitor’s tight vest, rhinestone choker, leather pants, and many-buckled black boots. Clothing suitable for a “distraction” at a men’s club or maybe a biker bar, though less typical at eleven in the morning at Rangeman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank continued speaking while considering the woman’s attire. “Jeanne Ellen, is there a business reason for your visit, today?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tank you're always so focused," she lamented, turning languidly to face his desk again, her vest straining against her ample bosom. Amused, he was reminded of what Ranger had seen in the woman back in the day, shortly after they'd set up business in Trenton. For a couple weeks, until Ranger, his brother-in-arms, had resumed paying attention above the neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While keeping his own peripheral attention firmly focused on Jeanne Ellen, he gazed down at his desk, noting the names of the security-inept Rangemen who were destined to meet him in the gym later. Taking his time, he made a show of organizing the other papers on his desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smirked to himself, recognizing the seduction in her movements combined with her studied disdain for Tank's authority. He admired the talent of her performance, even if he wasn’t particularly affected by it. While he could certainly appreciate her charms, he'd never had an interest in getting anywhere near those toned, slim hips, nor her slimmer morals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, he admitted to himself that he probably shouldn't have used the phrases “skinny ass” or "sloppy seconds" at Shorty’s that time when Jeanne Ellen had been trying to make Ranger jealous. Proof that enough Bacardi could make even the most taciturn man speak up when truth was on the line. But, he shrugged, sometimes a man just had to call it the way it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anyway, that was all in the past, and proof that sometimes things worked out the way they were meant to happen. After all, Jeanne Ellen was a better match for Les Sebring's style of business than for Rangeman. And Stephanie Plum— the Bombshell Bounty Hunter in all her chaotic glory— was a far better match for both Rangeman and Ranger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>During his studious inattention, Tank was pleased to note that his apparent distraction had spurred Jeanne Ellen to make it clear why she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> at Rangeman today. It was a simple tactic, but it torqued her off every time. He smiled inwardly: such little things could bring so much pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While airing her complaints, her voice had soured from syrup to vinegar. Her dramatically outlined eyes were now sharp with annoyance. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she snarled, “if that wasn’t enough, this underwear weasel brought in Joey Baldinucci for the bond last night,” Jeanne Ellen concluded her tirade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure did," Lester replied smugly. "Laid my body on the line for that one, that's the truth. But it was worth it. After all, it's not often you get to bring in a one-million-dollar bond on one night's work." Tank could hear the cocky smile reflected in Les's tone. "And Tank here is playing it cool,” he continued, ”but I'm expecting a hefty bonus or at least a good party for bringing this one in."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Definitely need to have Santos pee in a cup</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tank thought while watching Jeanne Ellen's eyes narrow dangerously. She leaned toward Lester like a lion sniffing her prey and then turned her steely gaze toward Tank. “I told Ranger last week,” she snarled. “Big Joey Baldinucci was my collar. I’ve been working that case, tracking Big Joey for almost two weeks and I was ready to close in. Had the snare set for tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matching the ice in her gaze, Tank asked, “Did you specifically tell Ranger about your set-up for tonight?” He was genuinely interested; Ranger hadn’t mentioned this conversation, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. High value bonds were typically treated as fair game for any taker after a few days. Jeanne Ellen should know this. Unless Ranger had, in fact, made a deal with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, of course, he was sure that his brother-in-arms had done no such thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confirming his assumption, she snapped, “You know I didn’t tell Ranger my plans. Or my timetable.” Her eyes flashed. “You obviously have me confused with an amateur. I’m not the cutsie, curly-haired </span>
  <em>
    <span>bombshell </span>
  </em>
  <span>who blabs her plans, goes off half cocked and has to be ‘rescued’ again-and-again by the big strong man,” she spat in a low, cold timbre. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Les straightened in his chair. “Leave Stephanie out of this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing Ranger’s cousin about to work up a head of steam, Tank intervened. “Fact is, Jeanne Ellen, it sounds like Rangeman gave you over a week of start time. The usual professional courtesy. And then, after the bounty became fair game, we were able to find and collar Baldinucci within two days of footwork. I’m not hearing what the problem is.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The </span>
  <em>
    <span>problem </span>
  </em>
  <span>is that you poached on </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>collar,” she growled, her attention now fully focused on Tank. “The </span>
  <em>
    <span>problem </span>
  </em>
  <span>is that Rangeman stopped respecting boundaries and fair business practices long ago.”  She pursed her lips as though she’d found a lemon in her lip gloss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyebrow flared upward. “Jeanne Ellen, am I speaking to you, right now? Or, to Les Sebring’s representative?” Tank was pretty sure it was the former, and that this was why Ranger had never bothered mentioning any conversation he’d had with the blonde piranha in front of him. He’d check later to make sure but he’d bet actual money that Ranger had a separate, clear understanding with Sebring regarding the Baldinucci bounty. Sebring was a pro. So was Ranger.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a stupid question,” she growled, confirming that Tank’s guess was right. The woman was here riding her own grudge. “Expect to hear more about this,” she said, pulling sideways from the chair and springing to her feet like a push-button switchblade. “Just don’t always expect Rangeman’s little boy-toy here,” she sneered at Les, “and Ranger Ricardo to always get their way. I’ve had it with Rangeman’s tactics.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she stalked toward the door, Tank glanced at Les, who looked as perplexed as Tank felt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, that’s Jeanne Ellen in a postcard</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he shook his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A whole lotta high horse, high self-image, and high maintenance, rolled into a blonde and leather hand grenade. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And, she was almost gone, and out of Tank’s hair, when— </span>
  <em>
    <span>dammit—</span>
  </em>
  <span> she stopped just before his office door. Pivoting to view both men, she placed her fists on her hips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As for leaving little Stephanie out of this,” she pronounced Bombshell’s name archly. “From what I saw on TV, she was face-planted right in the middle of </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>the action last night. Though, alas, I guess she missed Magic Les on stage beforehand,” she sneered. “Heard you got some George Washingtons stuffed down your ‘thong hammock’ to give it some bulk before you made your TV debut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh baby, they were all Benjamins, with phone numbers scribbled on them. And, I’ll tell you, they barely fit since my thong is already way too full.” Les had shifted while he spoke, and somehow it was now impossible to ignore the “thong hammock” portion of his anatomy. And, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lord have mercy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tank did try. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeanne Ellen scoffed. “Was that before or after you got pulled off the stage for letting Shotgun Sammy’s daughter-in-law stroke her hand up and down those Benjamins, up close and personal?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tank thought. That was strangely specific. In fact, it described the exact portion of last night’s event summary where apparently Ranger had finally given up, calling Tank over breakfast instead of just storming downstairs with mayhem in his eyes. The actual storming with mayhem had come later, though it was much less eventful than it could’ve been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But frankly, this morning was another reason why Les was on Tank’s shit list today, because calming down Ranger while discussing Les’s practically naked takedown was not what he had planned over his breakfast omelette and smoothie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, the issue wasn’t that Les was practically naked. That was old news. In fact, Vince was still regaling the team how he’d had to bail the man’s ass out of Trenton lockup last New Year’s, after </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magic Les</span>
  </em>
  <span> had taken a pre-dawn stroll after the Rangeman party and gotten picked up naked as a goddamn jaybird on Market Street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, it was that it was supposed to have been a surgical, almost invisible capture. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Goddammit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they’d planted Les and Vince as catering crew for the event Baldinucci was attending. They’d had the manager’s help in setting up a distraction that was choreographed to send Baldinucci into the banquet hall’s kitchen, by himself, where Les and Vince were supposed to be positioned for the take down. Further, Gene was stationed at the rear door and Chet was in front. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So how the actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>did Les end up on stage as a stripper? How had they sent their target barrelling into the parking lot, rather than the kitchen. And how had Chet not figured out to alert the control room that a news crew had shown up for the other event being held at the facility? The one Stephanie had unexpectedly attended. And, </span>
  <em>
    <span>good Lord almighty</span>
  </em>
  <span>, how did nobody on site know that LIttle Girl was there? How did Ranger not know?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank blinked, realizing that he had a sudden, completely unexpected sympathy for Joe Morelli and his rumored case-load purchases of Pepto Bismol. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Jeanne Ellen and Les were apparently still sparring. Verbally, that is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What went wrong last night, </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” She cooed in Les’s direction. “Didn’t Big Joey like your bump-n-grind as much as you thought he would? I mean, to run out the door like that….” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Les winked flirtatiously. “You’re just jealous. You wish you could’ve been inside to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>the action like the other ladies, starting from all-buttoned-up, all the way to just-the-jock.” Les raised his eyebrow and flashed a smile. “Oh, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>see the good part: down on the ground, with the cuffs. Too bad you just got there too late to catch the entire show.” He </span>
  <em>
    <span>tsked</span>
  </em>
  <span> as though rueing the lost opportunity. “Maybe next time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like a must-miss invitation,” she huffed. “And, I wouldn’t call it jealousy. More pissed off that you hijacked my bond, along with relief that I missed the show. Anyhow, I have more important things to do.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she pivoted back to the door, Tank again wondered how she knew about women stuffing money into Les’s thong, along with the specific reason why he’d been pulled off the stage. She’d made it clear that she hadn’t been inside the club. He was missing a piece of the puzzle: how did she know what had happened before she arrived? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jeanne Ellen,” Tank reluctantly spoke up when she finally started to open his door. “Out of curiosity, it sounds like you had really good intel on last night’s apprehension,” he said, trying to sound as though he was impressed. “You must have had solid surveillance on Baldinucci.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeanne Ellen preened slightly. “I have extensive and loyal contacts across the city.” She lifted her chin as though this statement vaulted her to a far superior level of bounty hunting than Tank could ever hope to occupy. “In fact,” she continued, “I dashed over to Paradise Ballrooms as soon as my informant there called, saying that he’d spotted my man. But just as I pulled into the club parking lot, </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>man over there was wrestling butt-up in his undies in the parking lot. While cuffing my meal ticket.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Tank murmured as everything slotted into place. Basically, Rangeman had boots on the ground last night and an apprehension plan, even if Les had basically ignored it. Meanwhile, Jeanne Ellen had been off somewhere, doing whatever it was that Jeanne Ellen did in her spare time. She only showed up at the club when Baldinucci had been leaving. In fact, if Les hadn’t detained the man in his own special way, Jeanne Elena probably would have arrived after he’d driven away. She really had no reason whatsoever to complain.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he finally said. This was apparently not the contrite, impressed, or otherwise flattering response that Jeanne Ellen expected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes narrowed as though she could shoot him dead with just her pupils. Then she snapped, “I’m outta here.” She wrenched open his door and strode into the hallway, sashaying an artful samba of feminine menace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank pressed line nine for floor security on his office desk phone, wondering when Rangeman staff had forgotten that they had an office phone system with intercom lines at their desks. Or that they had goddamn cell phones, for that matter. Plenty of ways to give Tank advance notice of problems on the floor before said problems burst in through his door in leather and rhinestones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank scowled, knowing the agenda item he was going to add to this week’s full staff meeting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Binky.” Tank barked, recognizing the man’s voice. “Escort Ms. Burrows off the floor and out of the building. Do not take your eyes off her until she’s out the front door.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank slammed his finger down on the disconnect button so hard that the old-fashioned desk phone jumped a half inch. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God damn</span>
  </em>
  <span>, today was just a hundred kinds of annoying. Then, following that thought, he glared up at Les, who was now flipping the kickstand on the back of his cell phone case open and closed. And open. And closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Les smiled. “Hey Tank, I think Jeanne Ellen likes me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God grant me the serenity</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tank briefly gazed heavenward. Looking back at Les, he snapped, “Yeah, Santos, inasmuch as you’re male and know how to wrestle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now ain’t that the truth,” Les answered, with a slightly dreamy look on his face that made Tank worry momentarily for the man’s sanity. Then he realized it was a lost cause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually,” Les continued, “I think she just really liked what she saw when I brought down Baldinucci last night. I mean, the guy’s a gorilla. And I got him down in three moves.” Les smiled and his eyes sparkled. “That was one sweet takedown. Having a bounty that high was like icing on the cake.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank just stared at the man, realizing that even God might not be able to grant him the amount of serenity he needed to handle today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Santos. “Before you get up and close the door on your way out,” he growled pointedly. “You need to explain how the heck you ended up on stage, last night. Were our apprehension plans that unclear? Because I recall words like ‘low key’ and ‘blend into the waitstaff’ while we discussed how you and Vince would be disguised as catering so nobody would know anything was happening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Les paused briefly in his rhythmic phone flipping. “Didn’t Vince put that in the report? Oh yeah, since I thought my in-ear microphone was working, I probably forgot to tell him the details later on,” he said, shrugging. “There was a lot going on. Anyhow, Bennie Marino, the catering manager, said the fake-cop stripper they’d hired for the event— a little something for the ladies, you know— hadn’t shown. He said either Vince or I should do it, because we’d taken the places of guys he would’ve given the duty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Les sat back, forearms resting along the armrests as though he owned the room. “So, I made the sacrifice. I mean, Vince is a good looking guy, but I knew I could pull it off. And well, yeah, I got carried away at the end. I blame it on my audience.” He grinned, a boy’s mischievous smile on a man’s face. “But, did you know there were so many hot honeys in the Caruso-Baldinucci clan? Whoa, </span>
  <em>
    <span>too hot, make a dragon want to retire, man</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He half sang the last phrase, in its original song cadence, while shaking his free hand as though he’d touched something scorching hot. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Great, now Les thinks he’s Bruno Mars</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tank shook his head. Keeping his focus, he frowned. “Are you saying that Bennie Marino changed our apprehension plan?” Tank pursed his lips, making a mental note to take the catering manager off the Rangeman “trusted” list. There was something fishy about his move. Had Bennie known about the TV trucks waiting outside for the event Stephanie had been at?  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess so,” Les replied, shrugging. “But it wasn’t a bad idea. On stage, I could see the entire room. And, I figured if I went along with Bennie’s plan, he’d be that much more likely to help us at the end.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somehow the TV news didn’t show Bennie wrestling Joey Baldinucci in the parking lot,” Tank muttered. With that, Tank decided he’d had enough for the moment. After all, they’d rehash all of this again when Ranger was finally cooled down enough to hold the event review for the Magic Les show— and the more he used Jeanne Ellen’s sarcastic nickname for Les, the better he liked it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was ready to point Les out the door, finger pointed in righteous fury like an Old Testament prophet, when a perfunctory knock interrupted his thought. Woody stuck his head in the doorway that Jeanne Ellen had left open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Boss,” Woody said. “Excuse me for the interruption, but the Trenton PD team is downstairs for their annual gun range inspection.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank frowned, unconsciously cutting his gaze to his top drawer, where he kept an emergency bottle of aspirin. The TPD gun range inspection was an annual thorn in his side. Overlapping police and Rangemen operations in the field led to an ongoing resentment in some parts of the force. Which, almost always, led to some stupid-ass, ticky-tacky infraction being written up. Something that required effort and money to resolve, and which was rewarded with the absolute joy of a follow-up inspection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why was he “officer on deck” today? Why hadn’t he gone on Bobby’s “redecorating” run down by Stark Street. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hell</span>
  </em>
  <span>, why hadn't he volunteered for truck detailing? Or the weekly supplies run? Even coordinating the monthly vermin patrol in the basement with Cal? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh yeah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it was because he’d persuaded Ranger to take the morning off. Which, of course, meant that his bro’ was with Stephanie in the gun range. The one that the TPD team wanted to inspect.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Resigned to his fate, Tank rumbled, “Just tell me that Morelli isn’t with them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, boss, just Boone and Polito like usual,” Woody twanged in his typical, literal way. The man was capable in the office and the field, but insightful he was not. And now, Woody was frowning in perplexity. “Morelli’s a detective, Boss. Why would he be with the inspection team?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he’s Morelli,” Les volunteered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Agreeing with Les, though he didn’t want to admit it, Tank muttered, “It’s just the way my day’s going. Tell them we’ll have to reschedule.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, now, you know I said that already,” Woody answered. “And, they said it had to be today or they’ll have to order our range shut down until they can do a recommissioning inspection. We’ve already rescheduled twice, so today’s ‘three strikes and you’re out’ day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah Tank, you remember,” Les piped up from his chair. “First was that time after the plumbing leak in the locker room doused the place. The second was right after Bones tested the semiautomatic he made using that 3D printer downtown and the thing kinda went crazy and sprayed the whole place with fracturing plastic bullets.” Les paused, his eyes bright with the memory. “That time was totally epic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess,” Woody mumbled as he ambled a few steps into the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Acquiescing to the fact that the TPD inspection was inevitable, Tank realized that someone needed to alert Ranger. And since the man was alone with Stephanie in one of his favorite places, that meant the duty would lie squarely with someone named Tank. He wondered idly if it was too late to simply disappear for the rest of the day without telling anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tank snorted. There was no room for shirking duty in Tank’s world. And frankly, this would all be standard crap on a normal day, when he didn’t have so much goddamn paperwork. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, let me get in touch with Ranger,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. He knew the protocol when Little Girl was involved. First text the man. If that didn’t work, call him. If he still didn’t answer, it was time for Tank to pull up his big-boy jock protector and go down to the gun range in person, ready for anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really, anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He typed a quick message, pressed Send, and then looked at Woody. “All right. I’ll work on alerting Ranger. Until he’s cleared the range, we need to stall our police colleagues. Call the front desk and have them tell Boone and Polito that they’ll have to wait briefly for a mandated, secure briefing that involves high-level personnel to complete,” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw Woody move his lips as he memorized Tank’s phrasing. Outstanding verbal memory was one of the man’s unexpected gifts. When he could tell that Woody was all set, he added, “Then, call Ella and see if she can round up some coffee cake or muffins for the waiting room. Those guys love that shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep, will do,” Woody said, standing at something like attention. Then, as Woody turned to leave, Hal pushed his way into Tank’s doorway, completely blocking it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Umm, Tank, since your door was open,” Hal began, oblivious to Woody's attempts to bob and weave his way past his muscular bulk. “I’m supposed to let you know that all the reports and forms are ready to review for the Baldinucci apprehension. They’re all printed, though they’re not all on the server, yet. Vince said you should probably read them first, before reviewing them with Ranger.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hal’s lips pulled in a grimace, no doubt remembering Ranger’s somewhat incendiary reaction to last night’s TV news, not to mention this morning’s reaction to Vince’s written event summary. Despite Tank’s best efforts, their always well armed, fearless leader had stormed across the floor after breakfast, slammed his door, and then marched back to the elevator with Stephanie in tow as soon as she’d arrived, purse still swinging from her shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Tank rumbled. “Is that all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not quite,” Hal answered, finally stepping into the office when he’d realized what Woody’s dance in the doorway had meant. “Barnes, down in Legal, managed to get the club’s internal security video, along with an agreement that they won’t provide it to anyone else. But, Baldinucci’s lawyers called and they want all the reports we pull together, plus that video.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Tank, I want a copy of that video, too.” Les spoke up, adding, “After all, I’m a featured player.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Santos, you’re a </span>
  <em>
    <span>player</span>
  </em>
  <span>, all right,” Tank drilled a glance in the man’s direction before returning his gaze to Hal. Who, he noticed for the first time, was clutching an oddly lumpy file folder in his beefy hand. “Is that the packet of printed docs for the Baldinucci meeting?” he asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yup, everything in duplicate. Also, Hector put a copy of the surveillance video on a thumb drive for you, which I taped inside.” He briefly flashed the inside cover of the folder, as though selling its contents from a shady corner on Stark Street. Tank spotted a couple of crosswise strips of duct tape holding the thumb drive to the inside of the folder. He made a mental note to determine later whether they were really out of regular clear tape or if Hal simply didn’t know anything existed other than two-inch-wide silver adhesive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank waved his fingers in a “gimme” gesture. “I’ll take that for now. Thank Hector for me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got it,” Hal said, lumbering over to relinquish the folder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank set the folder down. Unsurprisingly, Hal still hulked, ramrod straight in front of his desk. The man awaited orders and followed them to a fault. Well, in Tank’s view, the only time it was actually a fault was when improvisation was required. Which meant they never, ever assigned him to Stephanie or her family anymore. Ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Giving Hal the okay to leave, he sensed movement in his periphery. Glancing sidelong at Les, he saw that Ranger’s cousin was no longer half recumbent in the guest chair. Instead, he was now angling toward Tank’s desk as though a Lester-magnet in his pencil cup had clicked on. Shaking his head, Tank promptly covered Hal’s manila folder with his duty roster, a legal pad, and his pencil. He topped off the pile with his commemorative Army paperweight and finally, the framed photo of his cats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone, even Les, knew not to mess with </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he finished rearranging his desk, he noticed movement in his doorway, yet again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi Tank,” Manny set his arms on either side of the doorframe, leaning half inside his office as though leaving himself the option to quickly flex his elbows and propel himself backward into the hallway as though released by a spring.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dammit,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tank thought. He should’ve had Hal close the door behind him, even if he still needed to eject Les. Which reminded him of his earlier Les-tossing fantasy, though this time his mind’s eye added a new, Santos-shaped hole in his office door, </span>
  <em>
    <span>à la </span>
  </em>
  <span>Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was certain that neither Les nor Manny quite knew the reason for the compact, satisfied smile that was a brief visitor to his otherwise stern visage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Manny, you gonna tell me what you came by to say? Or are you just enjoying the ambience of a busy man’s office?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha, good one,” Manny replied. “I need to get back to that potential jewelry store client regarding the meeting that’s set for 15:30 this afternoon. Ranger declined it, so I need to know if you’ll attend before I call them back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And, you need this right now?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he shrugged. “But since your door was open, I figured I’d ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you did,” Tank rumbled. He wondered if it was possible to get a cramp by repeatedly suppressing the urge to roll one’s eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since Ranger declined the meeting, he probably was making room for the delayed event review for last night’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>cluster foxtrot</span>
  </em>
  <span> featuring Magic Les. Hopefully, by then, Ranger will have cooled down. Tank shrugged inwardly; if anyone could cool him down, it was Stephanie. Though the proximity of her face to Les’s “moneymaker” in last night’s TV footage was still problematic. It could really go either way. Especially since Ranger was in the active process of wooing her away from the cop. She was “the one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Les was in deep shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting that thought to the side for the moment, Tank instructed, “We need to move that meeting to tomorrow. Manny, see what you can do.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Claro que sí</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he agreed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
  </em>
  <span>You got it,” he added, pushing back off the doorframe with only minor spring action before turning down the hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Speaking of Ranger and delays… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tank looked at his phone, and of course Ranger had not replied to his earlier text. A quick peek at the building’s badge log showed that he was still in the gun range. So, now it was time for stage two of the “give homeboy a heads-up” campaign. He glared at his cell phone, selecting Ranger’s number. And, of course it went to voicemail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleared his throat, then said, “Yo. Call me. TPD incoming.” He paused, then decided more context might help. “They’re cordoned off in the first-floor conference room, raring for the annual poke-and-prod of the bowling alley,” he used their shared euphemism for the gun range. Finished, he thumbed the hang-up button. Noting the time, he started a countdown. At this point it was probably inevitable that he’d need to personally visit Ranger in his impromptu love-shack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, at least it would give him an excuse to eject Les, so he could finish today’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>goddamn </span>
  </em>
  <span>paperwork and maybe even leave the office for awhile. He needed a good workout.  Maybe there would still be time to join Bobby at the planned ‘redecoration’ off Stark street. If nothing else, he looked forward to calling Binkie and Zero to the mats downstairs, because there was no way Jeanne Ellen ought to have been able to breach the perimeter of his fortress of office solitude without prior warning.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Tank,” Les interjected. “DId you know that the news station has last night’s apprehension footage online?” he asked, holding his cell phone in the air to share the video playing on the small screen. Pulling it back to his view, Les grinned. "Those glute exercises are definitely paying off.” </span>
</p><p><span>“All right, that’s it,” Tank said, slapped both hands on his desk. It was finally time to send Les packing for a blessed moment of peace before heading downstairs. But, before he had a chance to say anything, Brett</span> <span>started to lean into his door with a question clear in his eyes. His mouth opened.</span></p><p>
  <span>“What the hell?” Tank exclaimed. “Does my goddamn door have a sign on it, saying 'bother Tank today'? Does it say ‘Tank is sitting here, waiting to hear about whatever piddly crap you need’? ‘Cause if not, I'm having a hard time understanding why people just keep dropping by like we’re all in a sitcom wanting to gossip about Rachel and Joey, for chrissakes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brett blinked. “Um, I’ll come back later.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good idea,” Tank snarled, ignoring the sound of a cell phone ringing in his office, assuming it was one of Les’s harem checking up on him. Then, his eyebrows stretched upward in surprise as it dawned on him that it was Ranger calling him back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he answered the call, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yo,” Ranger replied. “Send the TPD packing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t. It’s their third visit. We’ll get a temporary ‘close’ order if we don’t let them inspect.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ranger’s eloquent yet concise swearing echoed his own thoughts. Then, he heard his partner explaining the situation to Little Girl who, of course, promptly asked why the TPD inspection couldn’t be delayed. After a few of back-and-forth comments in a notably softer tone than Ranger typically used, he came back on the line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Stephanie is headed up to fetch them, along with whoever is second on front desk duty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chester Deuce,” Tank replied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. You’re clear. I’ll handle the inspection,” Ranger said, his tone clearly implying “don’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>of screwing with me.” Officers Boone and Polito had better be on their best behavior. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Roger that,” Tank said with a chuckle as they both ended the call. He exhaled, back in parallel formation with his brother-in-arms. He relaxed back into his chair, once again in charge of his own domain. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, almost. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He eyed the stacks of paper on his desk, now a bit taller due to the Baldinucci incident folder with the thumb drive taped inside like a giant wad of silver gum. He did a quick mental calculation on how much time he needed to finish everything, and when he could get to the gym for a good throw-down or two. Which, </span>
  <em>
    <span>good God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he put his paperweight back where it belonged, he realized that he was once again hearing the sound of Les opening and closing the kickstand on the back of his phone case. Thwick-flap, thwick-flap. His eyes swiveled to the man in question. Perhaps his time in the gym, later today, would start with Les. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Santos…,” he ground out. “Why are you still here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, grumpy,” Les said with a lopsided grin. Clicking his phone into his belt holder, he pushed himself out of his chair, adding, “Well, time flies. I’d better go trade places with Caesar in monitoring.” At the door he turned back toward Tank. “Man, I don't know how you have the time to sit around all day like this, shooting the breeze. Must be nice to be in charge."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ain’t nothing better,” Tank answered. He was definitely meeting with Les, first, in the gym. Well, unless Ranger dragged him to the mats first. Either way worked for Tank. Once again, he was sure that Les didn’t know the reason for his unassuming, satisfied smile as he said, “I’m sure you’ll find out, one of these days. For now, just close the goddamn door after you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally alone again, he leaned forward to restore his framed cat photo to its place of honor. Then, after arranging the various stacks of paper to facilitate his work, he went back to payroll. He was getting into the groove, making progress, when he was interrupted by a knock at his door. </span>
  <em>
    <span>For chrissakes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. How many interruptions could one man abide? Before he managed to protest, though, it swung open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Tank,” Stephanie leaned in, her hair still a bit mussed, though he would never tell her. “Ranger said I might be able to help you, today.” She frowned. “Though Les and Brett tried to block my way when I told them I was headed back here. They made big crabby faces but  maybe it was constipation? I really couldn’t tell. Jeez, what was that about, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tank gaped at her, trying to find a polite way to say “go away.” And then, he stopped. Stephanie, of all people on deck today, had the skills to actually help him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh hallelujah!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on in, Little Girl” he said, smiling broadly, his hand waving her in. “You are a sight for sore eyes; just who I needed to see.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bounded into the office, closing the door behind her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank the merciful God</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Taking a seat, she said, “Okay Big Guy, let’s do this. We </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>this day.” She picked up a pencil like it was a baton and she was getting ready to lead the charge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, right then, Tank felt all his tension fade away. He’d never know exactly how Little Girl often seemed to know what was needed, but once again she’d managed her own, special version of saving the day. And it was starting to look like a good day, after all. </span>
  <em></em>
  <span></span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>- The end - </span>
  </em>
</p>
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